by Amii Lorin
"True," he agreed easily, which incensed her even more. "But that doesn't stop me from wondering what he did to you."
"You can wonder until the cows come home," she spat out angrily. "I have no intention of pandering to your curiosity." Again she tried, and failed, to disengage her hand. "And if you don't mind"—she gave another unsuccessful tug against his grip—"I'm tired, I want to go to my room."
"Okay," he sighed deeply, exaggeratedly. Without warning he began to walk, tugging her along.
An uneasy silence hung between them like a tangible presence all the way back. A silence that went unbroken until, standing before the door to her room, his hand covered hers as she attempted to insert her key into the lock.
"Victoria, wait," Ben urged softly. His other hand came up to grasp her shoulder and turn her to face him. His somewhat austere features betrayed confusion. "I'm damned if I can figure out why what I said upset you. But, as it obviously did, I'm sorry. If I promise to ask no more personal questions, will you have supper with me again tomorrow night?"
Vichy's pulse leaped. Good grief, she chided herself in confusion, hadn't she just gone out of her way to discourage him? She knew that if she had any sense at all she'd say no.
"Yes." So much for sense.
"Good." His warm breath feathered her forehead as he lowered his head.
He was going to kiss her, she knew it, and yet she stood, unable to move, her eyes fastened on his firmly outlined mouth as it drew closer to her own.
"Ben!"
Her whispered protest was too late. His mouth touched her parted lips for gentle seconds, and then he lifted his head and stepped back. His fingers plucked the key from hers and a moment later the door swung inward, the keychain dangling from the lock.
"Good night, Victoria."
Leaning to her, he lightly brushed his lips across her cheek, and then he was gone, striding down the hallway.
Jerking like someone coming out of a trance, Vichy hurried into the room, closed and locked the door, then, breathing deeply, leaned back against the wood panels weakly.
What is it about this man? she asked herself blankly. Her chest felt constricted and she had a strangely hollow feeling inside.
Shaking her head sharply, Vichy pushed herself away from the door. No, she was overreacting, she assured herself bracingly. She was attracted to him, yes, but it was purely a physical attraction, nothing more. Surely she could handle that.
As she moved around the small room preparing for bed, Vichy rationalized her totally out-of-character response to Bennett Larkin. Never before had she gone off with a complete stranger as she had tonight. Hadn't she even kept Brad at arm's length for several days after they'd been introduced before agreeing to go out with him? But, she was so childishly homesick and lonely, much more so than she'd been at twenty-two. Then she'd had the fullness of the promise of the future to combat the occasional pangs of emptiness. Bennett Larkin had lit the first spark of life in her in what seemed like ages.
On the verge of sliding into bed, Vichy went still with a cautioning thought: Be very careful, Vichy Parks, that the spark Ben Larkin fired doesn't flare into a full-blown blaze. You've been burned before; play it cool.
After settling herself for sleep, Vichy deliberately conjured up a mental picture of Ben Larkin, again asking herself, What is it about him?
She had met so many men over the years, some of them almost unbelievably handsome that, comparatively, Ben was merely very attractive, and that in a harshly masculine way. A tiny, live wire of excitement shot through her body. Was that it? Was it that raw masculinity about him that appealed to something within her? Vichy shivered. She knew nothing about him but one thing—he was all male.
Vichy's last thought before drifting off to sleep was, all male or not, he's a gambler, and not to be trusted—or was he?
CHAPTER FOUR
Tuesday was much like Monday, except for one major difference—all day long thoughts of Ben stole into Vichy's mind, bringing with them a mixture of excitement and trepidation.
Periodically swinging from feeling breathless to foolish, even she heard the new nerve in her voice as she sang her way through her first performance.
Touching up her makeup before her final set, Vichy couldn't help but notice the flush of color in her cheeks. Stroking a brush through her mane of dark hair, she studied her appearance critically. Her dress had cost a great deal, and it was worth every penny. In a pale lilac, the soft silk material clung to her full breasts and small waist, then swirled out enticingly around her slender calves.
Finally satisfied with the smooth shine of her hair, Vichy stowed the brush in her bag, wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, and, swallowing to relieve a sudden tickle in her throat, went back to work.
A quick inspection of the lounge left her feeling as flat as a bottle of uncorked, week-old champagne. Ben wasn't there!
Never missing a beat, or forgetting a word, Vichy sang, talked to the audience, and laughingly bantered with the combo that backed her up musically, all the while upbraiding herself for the depth of disappointment she was experiencing. He was a gambler. Hadn't she learned the hard way that gamblers could not be trusted? But the same nagging thought she had tried to push out of her mind kept coming back. Maybe he was different, maybe she had misjudged him…
The set seemed endless. Lord, had she really rehearsed all these numbers? At last, only one more song to go! Then she could go back to her room and cry, or throw something, or curse all gamblers out loud.
Flashing her listeners a brilliant smile, Vichy opened her mouth and very nearly missed the first note. Moving casually and looking extremely attractive, Ben Larkin made his way to the table he'd sat at the previous two nights.
Felling her anger in its path, joy welled up inside and voiced itself through her music, drawing from the audience the most enthusiastic round of applause she'd received since beginning her engagement. Ben was equally appreciative.
"I'm doubly sorry now that I arrived so late." The smile that revealed his even, white teeth sent an expectant chill along her spine. "I fear I've missed a very exciting performance."
Lackluster, Vichy silently corrected him while aloud she murmured, "Thank you," and returned his smile.
"Don't sit down." Ben took her arm as she made a move to do just that. "I've had the car brought around. Go take your makeup off as quickly as possible."
"But—"
"Go," he ordered gently. "We wouldn't want the doorman unhappy with us. The car's taking up space."
Vichy removed her makeup in record time. Carrying her coat, she went back to him and, without a word, he ushered her to the lobby and out of the building. Slipping a bill to the uniformed doorman, Ben led her toward a sleek-looking black Grand Prix. Allowing the doorman to seat her, he strode around to the driver's side and slid behind the wheel. Vichy remained quiet until they were through the worst of the congested traffic and headed away from the city. Now, after being tense and jumpy all day, a sense of contentment enfolded her like a warm pair of arms.
"At the risk of sounding nosy," she taunted lightly, "might I be permitted to ask where we're going?"
At her easy, teasing tone, Ben shifted his eyes from the road to her face in a swift, encompassing glance. His slow smile carried the impact of a sledgehammer.
"Feel good, do you?" he teased back, his sherry eyes lit from within. "We're going to have supper at a steak house along the road, several miles inland." He went on without waiting for a reply from her. "Does that meet with your approval?"
Vichy's soft laughter was a clear indication of her suddenly light-hearted mood. "Would it matter terribly if it didn't?"
"Terribly," he intoned with mock seriousness. "I'd be devastated."
"I think you're pulling my leg," she accused laughingly.
"Oh, no," Ben drawled, slicing her a glinting look. "If I ever pull on your leg, beautiful, you won't have to think about it—you'll know."
His tone as well as the innue
ndo sent a shaft of warmth radiating through her body and Vichy was grateful for the darkness that concealed her flushed cheeks from him.
Whatever had come over her? she wondered, studying his relaxed profile from under lowered lashes. If any other man had made that remark to her in just that suggestive tone, she'd have withdrawn behind a wall of ice. What is it about this man? Vichy asked herself for at least the hundredth time. Why does he have the power to reduce me to a blushing inarticulateness? He was only a man, and probably a gambler at that. If she had any sense at all, she would not even be here now.
"Am I receiving that silent treatment for being brash?" Ben's quiet taunt jerked her out of her introspection.
"Was I expected to respond to that crack?" Vichy parried.
"Crack?" Ben laughed aloud. "Oh, sweetheart, that was no crack. That was a promise."
Now, how in the world was she supposed to respond to that? Thankfully, she was spared the effort, as at that moment Ben brought the car to a near stop, then, his long hands controlling the wheel easily, he drove off the road into the parking lot of a long, single-story building which boasted a neon sign that proclaimed it a steak house.
Very likely due to the fact that it was a Tuesday night and fairly late, there were only a few patrons in the large, dimly lit dining room. They were greeted at the door by a smiling hostess, smartly dressed in a straight long black skirt and a crisp, long-sleeved white blouse. She escorted them to a secluded corner table, asked if they'd like to order a drink, then, after presenting overlarge menus for their perusal, went gliding away to place their drink order.
"That is a very classy-looking woman," Ben opined, his eyes following the swaying, retreating form.
"Yes," Vichy agreed tightly, appalled at the flash of annoyance his attention to the woman's appearance generated in her.
"But she can't hold a candle to you," he added teasingly, obviously not missing the strained note in her tone. His eyes dancing with devilment, he examined her face and the upper part of her body, lingering long seconds on her silk-draped, suddenly quivering breasts.
"Ben, s-stop it," Vichy pleaded constrictedly, glancing around nervously.
"Why?" Leaning back lazily, he raised gleaming eyes to hers. "Are you wearing a bra?" he asked softly, outrageously, chuckling softly at her quick gasp.
"That's none of your—" she began in a strangled groan, only to gasp again at his soft laughter.
"I don't believe you are," he laughed, his eyes betraying the amusement he felt at bringing a rush of pink to her pale cheeks. "Of course," he drawled consideringly, "to be absolutely sure, I'll have to play the intrepid explorer-later on."
"You'll do nothing of the kind!" Vichy exclaimed in another shocked gasp.
Ben's delighted laughter bounced around the nearly empty room, drawing the eyes and smiles of patrons and staff alike.
"Oh, Victoria, you're an absolute gem," Ben teased around the laughter that still rumbled in his muscled chest. "You snap at the bait like a starved fish."
"Better be careful," Vichy teased, falling under his playful spell. "You could find you've hooked a barracuda, with very tiny, but pointed, teeth."
"Ah, ha," he shot back. "But the barracuda is no match for the shark, who has very large, pointed teeth." His voice dropped to a low growl. "And this shark is already tempted to gobble up the barracuda." His eyes raked her like a rough caress. "And this particular barracuda is a very tasty-looking morsel indeed."
Catching sight of a waiter approaching their table, Vichy purred, "Luckily, this particular fish is about to have her scaly skin saved by a fisherman in the disguise of a waiter." She fluttered her long eyelashes innocently. "Are you going to order a barracuda steak?"
"Barbs like that only make the shark hungrier," Ben managed to jibe softly before the waiter came to a halt beside Vichy.
Suddenly famished, Vichy ordered a full-course dinner, from soup through dessert, and ate every bit of it. In between her first spoonful of broccoli-cheese soup and her last forkful of pecan pie, the conversation flowed easily between them.
"Victoria is such a straightlaced sort of name," Ben mused around his own spoonful of the rich soup. "Haven't you ever been called Vicky, or even Vic?"
"Vichy," she supplied.
"What?"
"Vich-ee," she repeated distinctly, shrugging lightly. "I have a sister eight years my junior. When she began to talk, she could not articulate Vicky. It always came out Vichy. The name stuck, even after she could have pronounced it correctly."
"I'm glad," Ben decided, after munching and swallowing a piece of his filet mignon. "It's different, like you."
"How am I different?" Vichy asked, glancing up from her plate in surprise.
"In many ways," Ben smiled. "I'll tell you sometime."
"Sometime?" Vichy echoed. "Why not now?"
Ben glanced around the room, empty now except for the employees. "Too public," he was teasing again. "You'll have to remind me to tell you when we have a little more privacy."
"Were you always a tormentor?" Vichy chided. "Even as a little boy?" Before he could answer, she tacked on, "Were you ever a little boy?" finding it hard to picture him any way but the way he was this minute.
"Of course I was a little boy once." His tone held effrontery. "I was even a baby at one time."
"Really?" Vichy breathed, wide-eyed.
His eyes glittered back at her.
"Had you thought that, perhaps, my parents had found me, fully grown, under a large boulder somewhere?"
"Natural offspring of a rock, you mean?" Vichy queried sweetly.
"I'm as hard as one," Ben's grin held wickedness. "Better be careful you don't bruise yourself against me."
The mere idea of being against him was enough to fluster Vichy all out of proportion, and sidestepping, she stammered, "Have you, ah, any brothers or sisters?"
"Coward," he mocked, then with lifted brows and bland face asked, "Sibling stones, so to speak?"
"If you will," she laughed helplessly.
"Oh, I will," he taunted, deliberately twisting her meaning. "I will, anything."
"Ben, be serious," Vichy admonished.
"I'm very serious," he answered her. "There are a number of things I will, with you—eventually. And that's another promise."
"Ben, please," Vichy begged, her dinner forgotten for the moment, lost, as she suddenly was, inside his sherry eyes. Those eyes, she decided vaguely, could be positively intoxicating.
"Is the barracuda ready to concede the battle?"
"Not on your fishhook," Vichy retorted.
"Just hiding out in the shallows, eh?" he wondered aloud. "Okay," he almost crooned. "I'll cut bait for a while." He speared a french fry, his eyes laughing at her. "I have one brother, no sisters." Popping the slice of potato into his mouth, he showed his teeth in a grin. "He's younger, not quite as hard as I am."
"Does he gamble too?" Vichy was sorry the moment the harsh-sounding words were out of her mouth, for Ben frowned, and the light in his eyes dimmed. His expression quizzical, he stared at her a long time before answering with a question of his own.
"Doesn't everyone?"
"Of course not!" Vichy exclaimed. "I don't."
"I think they do," Ben stated adamantly. "Yourself included."
"No," Vichy shook her head in denial. "I never—"
"Forget it," he interrupted brusquely. "I never argue over a meal." The light went on in his eyes again, and he smiled meltingly. "It's bad for the digestion, you know,"
"But, Ben—" That's as far as she got, for Ben again cut determinedly across her attempt at protest.
"You mentioned a younger sister. Are there any others?"
"One other sister and a brother," Vichy sighed in defeat. "Both older than I."
"And is there a husband waiting at home?" he asked overly casually.
"No." Vichy kept her tone every bit as casual. "Is there a wife?"
"Not anymore," Ben declared grimly. His tone sent her eyebrows up i
n question. With a shrug, Ben clarified, "I've been divorced for three years."
"I've got three years on you." Her flat statement sent his brows arching. Emulating his careless shrug, Vichy explained, "It's been six years since I received my divorce decree."
"You must have been very young." It was a deliberate probe to ascertain her age, and Vichy knew it. She smiled wryly.
"I was twenty-three."
"I was thirty-one," Ben offered her the knowledge of his own age. "It's a bad experience at any age."
"Yes," Vichy nodded soberly.
"Were there any children?" he probed further.
"No." Thank God, she added silently. "You?" she sank her own probe.
"One, a boy." Ben's expression was suddenly so fierce Vichy felt chilled with apprehension. The feeling deepened when he went on harshly. "I have custody."
Good Lord! A shiver slithered down Vichy's spine. He was frightening. His chiseled features had set into granite hardness. This would be the wrong man to cross, Vichy thought nervously. At that moment, without knowing any of the facts concerning the affair, Vichy felt compassion for his former wife.
"Chad's seven."
Ben's quietly voiced statement scattered Vichy's thoughts. Glancing at him quickly, she tried to discern his mood. A sigh of relief whispered through her lips. His expression had softened a little—and the gleam was back in his eyes.
"And is he as hard as you are?" she blurted out before she could stop herself.
"Not yet," he laughed without humor. "But he will be." His laughter subsided into a bitter smile. "No woman is ever going to rake him over the coals. I intend to see that he goes into the world fully prepared."
"To do the raking, instead of being raked?" Vichy asked bitingly.
"Bad, was it?" Ben queried softly.
"Very," Vichy clipped, revealing her impatience with him.
"Okay." He held up his hands in surrender. "Point taken. But, in my own defense, I must say that I have been instructing him on the proper way to treat a—a lady."
His deliberate pause was not lost on Vichy. Holy cow, Vichy thought wildly, was he also instructing him on the proper way to treat a non-lady? A second shiver followed the first one down her spine. Ben saw her involuntary movement.